


A Good Servant

by theelderfish



Series: A Good Servant [1]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, F/F, Implied Sexual Content, Master/Pet, Murder, Not Canon Compliant, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29746170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theelderfish/pseuds/theelderfish
Summary: You would do anything to keep her happy: be it keeping her pet healthy, running her house or making her wine. Everything but for what you both want.
Relationships: Lady Dimitrescu (Resident Evil)/Original Female Character(s), Lady Dimitrescu (Resident Evil)/Reader
Series: A Good Servant [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186301
Comments: 17
Kudos: 182





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some content warnings for this part: there's heavily referenced sex/sexual activity, pet play (not with the reader, this is an angsty prologue fic), brief mention of adultery, casual contemplation of murder, brief mention of whipping and a joke made about catholics. If I missed anything that you think should be tagged, comment and I'll add it
> 
> Also, I'm posting this on mobile so feel free to point out spelling mistakes!

You start down the hallway before you can stop to think, holding the tray aloft in one hand. It's very easy to hear the strangled sounds of Lady Dimitrescu's most recent pet, some twenty something woman from the village, which only makes your job that much harder.

As you had been here for quite some time, you knew one of the most taboo acts was to interrupt her during 'training'. As you got closer you could hear her voice clear as day, offering soothing encouragements before the snap of a crop reached your ears. 

You stop just before the door, wondering briefly if she'd use it on you for interrupting. But you couldn't send the heads of the other families away, so you steal yourself, rebalanced the tray and knock thrice. 

There's a shuffle and her pet screams louder than before, followed by a half slurred string of begging and moans. 

You purse your lips. You knock again, thrice, harder this time. You finally hear the Lady curse, some Romanian word you can't quite grasp yet, followed by quick shushing of her pet. You hold the tray carefully and take a precautionary step back. 

She slams the door open and you catch a fleeting look at her black silk underwear before you shift your gaze into the room. Her pet, whose name you don't know and don't care to learn, sits uncomfortably on the floor beside her masters bed. 

"What is it?" Lady Dimitrescu snarls down at you, and you look up at the filigree decorating the wall beside her head. 

"The Heisenbergs and Moreau are here to see you, Madame. They bear a seal from Mother Miranda." You handover the letter one of them gave you and fill her glass while she reads it. 

You drop a bit of her special wine into it and hand it over. She eyes you carefully, taking a lemon slice. "Help me dress." She says and walks back into her room. 

The hallway beckons but you follow her in anyway. She won't kill you, not while Mother Miranda has need of you, but you know she forgets how fragile people are sometimes. Her pet is a keen example; she clearly hasn't slept much due to her servicing, she's bruised all over and the way her lips wobble stirs some momentary pity in you. 

Unfortunately for her, any stronger feelings have long since been cut away and seeing her in such a state only brings up questions of how you can improve. Still, you try to put on some faux sympathy for her. 

You fill the smaller glass and hand it to her pet with a small platter of apple slices. When you look over to Lady Dimitrescu her brows are raised. 

"She hasn't eaten for two days, Madame." You say instead of explaining. It had been one of the cooks ideas, someone that knew her. 

Clearly, Lady Dimitrescu didn't realise that, "Of course," she replies crisply, her tone too sharp, "You may eat, pet." 

Without waiting, you walk over to her closet to pick a dress. They are the same style and differ in their colour scheme; three are the same shade of light cream, twelve are pure white and three more are tinged grey. You pick out a light cream one with matching undergarments when she calls you over. 

You've been working for her a long time, excess of seven years, so you know how she prefers to be dressed after stringent activity. You slip her bra on and her underwear. Slowly, you put her stockings on, as to not rip the expensive fabric, and clip them to her garter belt.

Lady Dimitrescu choses which garter she wears each day rather than have you or her personal maid do so, today it is the one that tangles easily. Its notorious among the staff for how difficult it is to put on. You know your way around it, though, fastening it quickly about her hips and thighs. "Have you put any thought into what I asked earlier, Madame?" 

Lady Dimitrescu scoffs, sipping her water, "I have a personal maid." She jerks her chin to her pet, who has been munching as quietly as possible on the apple slices. 

"Yes," you say lightly, helping her step through into her dress, "I merely doubt she will have time to deal with any duties other than those of a pet." 

She eyes you dangerously and sets her cup down. You ignore the passive aggressive ploy to retrieve the step ladder in the closet. You flick it open and climb it as you pull her dress up, admiring the muscles of her back when she flexes subtly, then guide her arms into the sleeves. 

"Who do you recommend, my gracious head of staff?" She croons when you work your way up the buttons of her dress. 

You overexaggerate your sigh at her playful tone. You catch her smile in the mirror and go back to buttoning. It is much harder to accept some days that this cannot last forever. 

"Jessica is a cheery and dedicated worker with a strong back for lashings should she ever disappoint," her pet looks at you with mild horror that you file away and you try to strain your voice a little more towards reluctance, "Mihaela may suit your temper better, she has a quiet nature, has little care for material things and does her best to avoid punishment." That and her aggressive asides about the Lady would stop if she wanted to live. 

Lady Dimitrescu moves over to her vanity, and you follow, grabbing the scissors attached to your chatelain and three roses from the vase on her desk. "Who else?" She asks, flicking the cap off her lipstick. 

"Louise may suit as well," You say as you clip the stalks, "but Miss Daniela has taken a fancy to her. It would not be the wisest choice. There is also Rachel but she is pregnant with the gardeners child." 

"Leave it to humans to rut like base animals on my property," she taps her lips thoughtfully, "Wasn't Rachel married?" 

"She is, Madame." 

"Do you remember to whom?"

You pause in your arranging of the flowers on her breast and she catches your eye with a smile that burns you, "It was to the southern most butcher. One of the Bradleys, I believe." 

She clicks her tongue, breaking eye contact, and you move to brush her silky hair out before she repins it. "Tell Heisenbergs retainer to have her husband brought here. It may be time to cull that wretched family," she paused, sipping again at her water, "Also, Mihaela will do, inform her after the meeting." 

"Of course, Madame." You set the brush down, and grab her powder, dusting it onto her cheeks as she fixes the curls back into her hair. She is most beautiful like this, when her face turns delicately pensive and she stills almost completely. You almost wonder what it would be like, with her, and have to take an extra second to cool your heating face. 

When she turns to you, with that deliberate, unabashed affection stealing the faux indifference from her face, it makes your heart quake in a way you haven't felt before. You have to look away before you both do something stupid. Deliberately, you plant your hand on her shoulder to keep her at a distance and stare intently at her ear as you put her earrings on. 

Her pet has come to sit at your feet, Lady Dimitrescu running her fingers through her hair and you vaguely wonder what it would be like. What if you were there instead and what if this and that and everything else you could want but can't have. Neither of you will cross Mother Miranda. 

Her pet gives you the dishes, the glass and plate empty. You move away from them, so that you're not tempting anything again and refill the glass. 

"Shall I also have inquiries made about a new gardener, Madame?" You ask as you hand the glass back, then move to gather together a suitable outfit for her pet. 

The softness is gone from her face and you tell yourself you're glad of it. "Yes, someone more appropriate." 

"Not a Catholic then?" You ask innocently. She chuckles warmly and you go about dressing her pet with a little smile. "And would you prefer the current one be brought to your daughters or sent straight to the cellar?" 

She regards you seriously in the mirror, and you stare back into her golden eyes before returning to fixing the bow on the back of her pets dress, "Bring him to me when I'm next available." 

You usher her pet back to her seat, taking care not to touch her, and put the cups back on the tray, "That would be after dinner for today, or at three tomorrow evening." 

"After dinner will be fine." She replies, eating the rest of her lemon. She hands you the skin, her fingers brushing yours deliberately, and you take longer than needed to deposit it on the empty plate. 

"The families are gathered in the dining hall, Madame. I had the kitchen staff prepare a light brunch." 

"Tell them I'll be there momentarily." 

"As you say, my Lady." You curtsy as you leave. You make a note to have Rachel serve dinner and to watch the Lady's pet while she's busy. You may even go so far as to ask the cook to make a broth; this pet seems to make her happy and you are determined that her pet remains able to do so. 

Its all you can do, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:
> 
> Casual mentions of death, body modification, mention of whipping (not in a sexy way in the bad way), mention of tongue removal, mention of murder, mention of strangling, infliction of grievous bodily harm, improper firearm use

There are many servant passages in the castle, mostly forgotten, and you use them to ensure that your staff behaves as desired. They help you find and smooth any kinks that arise, like Rachel's inability to not have an affair and Daniela's nightly harassment of Louise. 

And to keep an eye on the Lady's pet, of course. 

She's too far out from your sphere of influence in the household for any actions you take to be beneficial in the long run. Lady Dimitrescu will only listen to you so long as you don't run contrary to what she wills; the wellbeing of her pet is something she considers seriously to be a personal affair and completely out of your hands. To accept that she doesn't know best would feel like a diminishing of herself. 

Yet, at the same time, being the cause of another pets death would greatly grieve her. If you can stop that, then you can consider your time well spent. 

"Bertrand." You call as you enter the kitchen. 

This time around, they are a thickly built muscled human, displaying traditionally masculine traits and being perceived as such. You know them as your sibling, even as their face is changed over the years. 

Their voice this time is booming and filled with a deep timbre. But while you both talk big and about nothing, you watch their hands. 

"Alex," you sign discretely, "I've run into a hurdle." 

"A breach somewhere?" They sign back. 

"No, I'm taking care of that. It's about her pet." 

"What about it?" 

"It's malnourished. Lady Dimitrescu isn't feeding it enough." 

They bend their fingers in a way to convey a calm down gesture, "Don't sign so angrily. Its obvious." A pause, "I will ensure something smooth and energy dense is made." 

"Apologies," you say out loud, folding your hands in front of you and matching the severity of their tone, "But it seems Miss Daniela has an upset stomach." 

"We'll see what can be done, ma'am," They said, crossing their arms, "But preparations have already been made." 

"Then remake them." You say, signing a loving farewell and exit the kitchen.

You steel yourself and walk over to the Heisenberg retainer, smiling tightly.

...

By four in the evening, the meeting is still dragging along, half the Heisenbergs are gone and Mihaela is still passed out on her bed. You've been cleaning for the past 30 minutes around her, packing her things, preparing new sheets, so on and so forth. 

When Mihaela finally wakes up, while you're busy dusting the candelabra around the room, she still has that wild shaken look on her face. 

"You, you have to change her mind." Mihaela begs. 

"I can't." You say firmly, not looking away from your cleaning. 

"Can't you try?" 

You put down your duster, "Would you prefer to watch me get lashed, Mihaela?" 

She squeaks. You find that most staff are too timid to risk others, terrified of being perceived as a monster, but you can see she still wants to push it. They all do, eventually. You clear your throat and continue, "In my absence, you answer to the Dimitrescu family. If a Heisenberg comes to you, tell me immediately, otherwise I cannot protect you." 

"Right." She mumbled. 

You picked up half her things and she hastened to pick up the rest. "It is imperative that you wake early enough to dress the Lady and that you remain on call for her at all times during the day." 

"Okay." 

You held the door open for her as she waddled into the hallway. "You'll be in close proximity with her pet," she paled and you rolled your eyes, "do not speak to her and do not touch her unless Lady Dimitrescu says so. That includes eye contact." 

"Right."

"And remember not to stare at her pet either. She took the last maids tongue for that." 

"Okay."

"You'll be picking every outfit for the Lady and her pet in the morning. Pay close attention to the colour, it would not do to have either of them wearing peach in summer or grey in winter." 

"I'll remember that." Mihaela huffed, struggling to keep up as you strode down the hallways. 

You pause before the next junction. When she catches up shes red faced and sweating, and you can see that she's shed a few tears along the way. 

"Don't fret over it," You say, "You'll make yourself slip up." When she looks sick, you smile and take care to keep the amusement from your voice. "Let's get you settled into your new room." 

...

You abandon Mihaela to her dread. She'd sort herself out before long or die in the process. 

When you get to the kitchen, you find your staff milling about quietly. You take the extra time to whip them back into shape until the kitchen is buzzing with moving hands and feet. More energy towards a better, emotionally frugal existence rather than wasting it indulging in panic. 

When that's done you take a tray from Catherine, stopping her shaking hands from making a mess of the hors d'oeuvres and sending her to work on the dishes instead. You take a glance at the food offered; lots of bacon, small samples of fruit and what looks to be the jelly Miss Breanna made from the leftovers of her last meal.

You checked the clock. Fifteen past five. 

You walk steadily into the dining room and then down the table to her side, where you deposit the small plates. The stares of the others follow you, but you've never let a Heisenberg or a Moreau distract you. By the way they stare, you wonder if they've never seen a blonde before. 

They're dug in like fleas, none moving but to recentre themselves. An intimidation technique, though without the stalwart grace that Lady Dimitrescu holds. 

She doesn't even spare you a glance, her entire focus on the tone of her voice and the way she tilts her head to watch all her guests. She moves smoothly, her pearls never clicking together, her hair barely moving as she turns to the head Moreau.

You could watch her talk all day and never run out of things to admire. 

Instead of pursuing that, though, you move to stand with your staff members, whose curling shoulders are disgraceful. Its second nature for you to stand tall, proud but reserved; the posture of a learned being rather than some common miscreant. As if on cue, your staff follow your lead and you almost frown. They're usually so composed, the ones you let serve guests. 

When Lady Dimitrescu calls your name, you walk over smoothly. You lean towards her when she gestures and almost startle when her lips brush your ear. She smiles, a just there curve of her lips, and you relax just a bit. Her pet, though, is no where to be seen. 

"Your other skills are needed," she murmurs, quiet enough that the others can't hear, and you note steel in her voice, "The smell of the room is different and my pet is missing. Find out why." 

When you lean away, you keep your expression neutral, "Of course, Madame." 

You bow respectfully and turn to leave, when you hear a Heisenberg call out to you. 

Each Heisenberg has this odd smugness to their voice, you find. Despite their familial history, you find that there mutations seem to have exacerbated their material indulgence rather than birthing a smarter breed of human. It's unforgivable but you tolerate them for your Lady.

"Do you know what happened to my last retainer?"  
  
"As I recall," you say without stopping, "they went for a trip to a natural aquarium."  
  
"Do you know where?"  
  
"I'm afraid not." You lie pleasantly and leave. Killing the last Heisenberg retainer had been a personal vendetta, one that not even the Lady knew of with any great detail. And it would remain so.

...

You check the kitchen first. Her pet was a social being, even if no one would talk to her, and would often come to your side to watch your staff work. You did have to admire that she kept herself apart, at the very least. 

When you don't find her, you walk calmly to your room and grab your gun. You reload it and then attach the silencer to it before walking to her secret room. You'd found it one day while exploring the hidden passages, looking for a quicker way to the servants quarters. 

It was barely a closet but it had small memorabilia from her home life which must bring her comfort. Lady Dimitrescu was not surprised when you told her, her curled hair shining as she took long drags from her cigarette. 

You would have done something about it, had she not forbidden you from acting.

It was empty when you got there but you noticed that one of her pictures was rumpled and the air had a faint whiff of cologne. "Fuck." You sighed and followed the smell.

Half an hour later, you were pleasantly warmed up and found her pet in a subterranean level. Ruined only by the fact that she was held at knife point. The Moreau staff member looked at you, cutting her throat slightly, and you fired a bullet into his hand without stopping. His knife hit the floor and he shrieked, which is a sound you're very sick of, and you fire another bullet into his kneecaps. 

"The Madame is looking for you." You say to her pet when he's stopped screaming. 

She steps away as you haul him over your shoulder, putting the gun away into your apron pocket. The man kicks and you squeeze his knees until he stops.

You give the pet a once over, trying hard to maintain a neutral face, "Quite the predicament you're in, isn't it?" 

She dips her head and stands perfectly still, "Yes," she whispers, "you cannot tell her—" 

You shut her up with a dismissive gesture, "Don't be a fool." 

"I'm not trying to be. What am I suppose to do?" She asks doefully, her lip wobbling. 

"Be silent, if you can manage it." You sigh, covering how you're rolling your eyes at the melodramatic display and grab her by the back of the collar. 

You drag her down the corridor, making sure to avoid the well used hallways. For her part, she keeps her eyes wide and scared, letting herself be dragged and curling her shoulders in. You wait until you're in the ballroom before you speak.

"What did he ask?" 

"I'm not sure, it was in a weird language." She's crying now but it only makes you angry. 

You walk the entire length of the massive area, "Could you repeat one of the words?" 

"I can't." She sobs and you wish she would stop. "It was gibberish." 

"Try to understand," you say, "I will safeguard this castle, if you can't help me then I suppose I wouldn't mind watching the Lady punish you." 

She stares, her tears forgotten, "What?"

"It seems that I may have to omit some things. I would need to lie a bit, of course, but only if you remain dishonest with me." 

"Why would you—?" 

"Because," you say waiting for her to stand so you can descend the steps, "you're a walking information leak. I will stopper you, even if I must goad the Lady into doing it." 

She stumbles beside you, hiding her expression before looking at you with a strange gleam in her eyes. "You care about this place?" 

Its presented too innocently for you to think it isnt loaded and you wonder who she has been talking to, "She breaks things when she's angry," you say instead of answering, watching her jolted reaction, "It's why you are so important. Pets don't break quite as quickly as vases." 

She averts her eyes. You can understand why the Lady picked her, really, but you wish she hadn't. If this pet doesn't survive after today, you may advise that she pick another who is a great deal more stupid than this one. Or just not keep cattle as a pet and get a dog instead. 

You're almost certain she was talking with the man before the knife was pulled. You can't trust her, even if the Lady seems to. 

You banish the thought when Miss Daniela appears before you. Her face is stony and she looks upset when she sees your passive expression. 

"Mother doesn't like when people touch her property. You know that." 

You'd completely forgotten. You release Lady Dimitrescu's pet. "Apologies," you say blankly, "I was unsure if she would be able to follow after what happened." 

"What happened?" Daniela repeats, with the same mechanical blankness. 

You take a second to build up an appropriate level of hesitance in your voice and she waits patiently for it, "This Moreau staff member tried to— force himself upon her," you pause, "was that enough?" 

"A tad under done," Daniela critiqued then cleared her throat, "I am sure Mother would excuse handling of her property after such a traumatic event." 

"Thank you for your leniency."

The pet watches both of you with wide eyes but without the usual shake she effects. You find yourself in the odd position of wanting to throttle her, "What shall I do with this?" You poke a finger into the man's bullet wound and hear him scream. 

Her face lights up and she checks his face. "I shall take him. Oh, and Mother wants her pet by her side." 

"And where is she currently?" 

"The foyer. One of the Moreau cousins are waiting for this man." 

You nod and hand him over, "He doesn't appear to speak English. And, remember, Miss Daniela, no biting." 

"Yes, alright. Let's go."

You herd the pet after Daniela, who continues her unsure meekness by drawing closer to you. You find it ironic. Despire sharing a race with the woman, you know she has more in common with Daniela than she ever could with you. 

That's by design, of course. 

By years of education and careful association. But that's worth dust when you enter the foyer and see Lady Dimitrescu's thunderous expression.

And then it hits you. You forgot to talk to Rachel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consistency is key and I can't do that so if it reads weird feel free to point it out!
> 
> I'm uniquevocashark on tumblr if you wanna say hi!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings for:  
> murder, blood, slut shaming, implied/referenced mutilation (nonconsensual glossectomy), smoking, mentioned domestic abuse

The blood on your shoulder starts to itch by the time the cousin is gone, and Lady Dimitrescu finally deigns to acknowledge either you or her pet. Daniela has long since disappeared in a cloud of buzzing insects and you’ve kept your hands busy by doting on the Lady as she sees fit. It doesn’t help, and her odd silence annoys you.

She lounges comfortably on a chaise lounge, mulling over a single bottle of wine, a book she isn’t reading propped up on a lectern before her. The room is hazy with cigarette smoke, muting the redness of the walls and blurring them into a dark maroon. She points at you with her chin, and you clean away the stain at the corner of her mouth.

Lady Dimitrescu tilts her pet’s head up by the chin too gently than she usually does in front of an audience and her tone is thick and syrupy in the cold silence, “Where were you, pet?”

Her pet doesn’t speak.

“You want me to believe you were attacked,” Lady Dimitrescu muses, and you take the cup from her, “You want me to believe you weren’t down there for a reason. You want me to believe you didn’t have a secret room. So many wants but you won’t speak. What rules are you breaking, pet?”

Lady Dimitrescu had postponed dinner, which meant that you had to hole Rachel up in the communal bedroom rather than bring her out immediately, so now you were understaffed. You suppose, technically, that they are the Lady’s staff and if she wishes to have less staff members she is entitled to do so. You just wish it wasn’t so bloody inconvenient.

Lady Dimitrescu leans forward, cupping her ear as if she was straining to hear something, “Speak up, dear. I can’t hear you.”

Her pet still doesn’t speak.

The Lady sighs and she has you hold her wineglass as she drinks. An action she only lets her pets do. She closes her eyes for a second after you pull the glass away, and her pet cringes back a step.

Lady Dimitrescu extends her claws and sends you from the room without a word.

…

Dinner is served at 12:30 in the morning and Lady Dimitrescu still has not spoken to you.

The only food that could be properly warmed in time, by sheer coincidence, is the broth you had insisted upon. The Lady’s pet, you’re surprised to find, is still alive but Lady Dimitrescu has never been one to kill her pets on purpose. For as long as you have worked for her, at least. The only caveat is that Mihaela has to spoon feed her carefully and her bloody drool and tears must be wiped away after each spoonful. Her pet has already ruined the front of her new dress.

You positioned Rachel nearest to the Lady and she practically vibrates with nerves while she fills Lady Dimitrescu’s wine flute. She isn’t as nervous as you think she should be. She doesn’t know that her husband is currently with Miss Daniela, though. Or that the Lady knows of her extra martial activities. The stringent adherence to the supposed sanctity of marriage is the only hold over from her protestant upbringing.

Other than the broth, there are a series of rainbow-coloured jellies shaped like butterflies and flowers, arrayed together on their plates to form a meadow. There are a range of cakes; cheesecakes and pound cakes, red velvet and the ever-present chocolate cake that Miss Breanna has already smeared all over her sleeves. Miss Daniela’s favourite, pineapple cake, remains untouched near the candelabra.

It isn’t until two in the morning, once the main course is served, that you bring Rachel’s husband into the dining room and Daniela forces the gardener next to her mother. Lady Dimitrescu kept intensive records on all families under her duty of care; she knew the time and date of all births, deaths and marriages of her subjects. She knew when they ate well and when they starved, she knew when they prayed and to whom, she knew when their children came of age and when their adults reached old age.

The Bradley’s were what she had deemed a _trial group._ Given special privileges to inspire a new flavour. But that was rather tangential. What mattered was that Lady Dimitrescu found their taste unsuited for any palate; Rachel’s indiscretion was merely the icing on the cake.

Lady Dimitrescu rubs the drool off her pet’s chin, “Mr. Bradley.”

Rachel’s husband has a voice that sounds strange with how quietly he talks, his accent slurring the ends of words with the start of the next, “Yes, my Lady?”

She smiles, her teeth stained pinkish. She pulls Rachel’s corpse forward with a finger hooked around the collar of her dress, and it falls forward and splatters a bowl of broth over him. Her throat is a mess of bitten out tendons and mangled vocal cords. You are impressed, as always, that Lady Dimitrescu has not one drop of blood on her dress. “I believe you lost this.”

He breathes through his nose, “Rachel.”

She licks drags her finger through the weeping hole and licks a drop from her finger.

“Why?” He asks with an emotion you can't identify. He doesn’t try to run, or freak out, or even go for the steak knife sitting pleasantly on the table next to his plate.

“She was an unfaithful whore,” Lady Dimitrescu sneers, “You didn’t beat her hard enough.”

He doesn’t blink, “That’s barbaric.”

“Don’t lie to me, Mr. Bradley. Your face isn’t suited for it.”

A muscle feathers in his cheek when she looks away from him. He isn’t old, but he isn’t young either and he’s missing fingers from frostbite. He has a ruddy complexion, but you suppose he’s handsome. In the way that stuffed elk heads are handsome.

Daniela, blissfully unaware, picks up her blood covered cake. “Oh, I love pineapple cake!”

…

“You were nervous earlier,” Lady Dimitrescu says, after the table has cleared, “Why was that?”

“It’s already been corrected.” You reply.

She sighs out a long string of smoke, “Has it?” You don’t answer and she laughs, a quiet chuckle that’s more a sigh than anything. She flicked the ash from the end of her cigarette. “Mother Miranda wanted to speak to you. A call will be coming through later.”

You nod. “Very well, Madame.”

Lady Dimitrescu looks at you, and you look at her. She blows smoke in your face and you squint against it. It means you don’t see her hand as it comes to stroke idly at your cheek, or the way her pet looks at you from under the table.

You frown at her, “You’re upset with me.”

She doesn’t answer.

You lean into her hand a little and she twirls a strand of your hair around a finger, pursing her lips. “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong,” She mumbles, and you lean towards her to catch her next words, “I just hate not knowing things.”

You step away from her and head towards the door. “Don’t look at me like that. I told you to get used to it.”

She doesn’t speak again, the usual banter she responds with lost in the vague expression of disdain on her face.

…

The phone rings late the next day, while you’re busy scrubbing at the dishes to help keep everything running on schedule. You end up taking the call while folding the loose clothing that hadn’t been folded in a week.

“Dimitrescu residence.”

“Finally,” Mother Miranda sighed through the phone.

“Mother Miranda.”

“Wesker.” She replied.

You pause, wrestling down a sudden lump in your throat and settling the phone between your ear and your shoulder. “Hello.” You say unevenly.

Mother Miranda’s laugh is no less lovely through the speaker than it is in real life, “You’ve been well, I take it?”

“Very well, Mother Miranda,” You flex your free fingers, then grab another pair of stockings, “You wished to speak with me?”

“I did. Have you had any relapses?”

“No, Mother Miranda.”

“You're healing properly?”

“Yes, Mother Miranda.”

“Excellent. Vanessa wanted me to inform you that she’ll be there on the morrow.”

You drop the shift you were folding. “Excuse me?”

“Did Alcina not tell you?”

“It must have slipped her mind.” You say lightly, placing the shift back into the basket.

“Vanessa will collect more data, but your condition is promising. I’ll call again in a week with the results.”

“Thank you, Mother Miranda.”

She laughs again and you can imagine her clearly. The dark red velvet of her armchair, the hewn strength of her face, the glimmer of her dark eyes. “Take care.” She cooed and hung up.

You place the phone down gently and stand there in silence until Mihaela calls you to the Lady’s room.

…

You try to keep your temper in check when Mihaela leaves but struggle with it to a point that you have to look at her pet instead. Even that doesn’t help, because her pet has dropped all pretence of being meek and glares at you from her spot. She isn’t near the Lady, curled instead behind the bed with a glare towards you.

She should be grateful that she only lost her tongue.

It takes you a moment to realise that you’ve let the silence drag on too long to be polite and that Lady Dimitrescu has abandoned her own charade of being engrossed in a book of poetry she hasn’t touched in years. You flex your fingers.

“Madame.” You say but forgo a bow.

“You’re upset.” She observes mildly.

“God forbid I have a temper.”

The room goes silent again, but you aren’t in a hurry to smooth it over, cataloguing the shock that twists her face. Her eyes are wide, and her smile shows too many teeth, but you’ve never been one to shy away because of a few fangs. She rises from her chair, stepping over the bloody stain in the carpet as she looms over you.

“I beg your pardon.”

“I could ask the same.” You snap.

She raises a brow.

“How _dare_ you,” You snarl, jabbing a finger up at her, and you struggle with your words, “How fucking dare you!”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I'm uniquevocashark on tumblr if you wanna come say hi!
> 
> Also: 
> 
> This is a multi chapter fic with a planned unhappy ending because Courtly Love Trope doesn't usually end well. There will also be references to Resident Evil lore from previous games. Do I care if its accurate? No, not at all. Resi purists beware this fic. And thanks for reading!


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